


Frostbitten Gold

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Series: The Frostbitten Verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Gen, Modern Era, Past Character Death, a few OCs - Freeform, flowers on gravestones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Enjolras has already lost one person dear to him just a few weeks prior. And now, he kneels in front of the smaller grave of the one he had promised to protect.A small prequel to the events of "Frostbitten Crimson."





	Frostbitten Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would come back to this universe, but due to someone I know having dealt with a similar experience recently as poor Enjolras here, a little, not-so-happy inspiration came for me. 
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes and grammatical errors.

_“No matter what happens to me or when, you’ll take care of them, won’t you?”_

_“I will, Nat, I promise. I’ll do anything and everything.”_

Natalie’s words, her voice growing weak but still holding on, cut through him. His own words, his promise, eat away, tear at him, until all that’s left is a broken shell.

Enjolras kneels in front of the small, newly-dug grave of his daughter. Dark brown dirt contrasts against the pure, freshly fallen snow, a lone marigold placed on the new headstone. His face is red and stinging from tear stains as the cold wind brushes past. His breath comes in gasps, having not yet recovered from this wave of grief; he almost chokes on the freezing air.

He curses himself again. He should have been there, dammit! If what happened to her was supposed to happen, if whatever higher power he once believed in had indeed played such a treacherous role in his grief, why have him minutes away in his stuffy office cubicle instead of being beside her incubator or holding her?

The call, it had come during a late night in the office, when his mind was still consumed with Natalie’s death and his work was keeping him distracted. He was told Rosalie was going to be all right, that the premature newborn was in fair health despite being born two months early, that her chances of survival were high but she still needed care for some time before she could go home. There was an empty nursery waiting for her that Natalie had spent weeks planning and arranging despite her fading health, her last gift to their unborn child.

All he was told over the phone was he needed to come to the hospital as soon as possible, and nothing more. He remembers having many thoughts of worry run through his mind on the car ride there. He was greeted by Joly at the door of the main entrance, who in silence took him upstairs to a side hallway, and told him the unfortunate news. He recalls the first time he saw her still form, touching her face and holding her, her small body already cold.

He hasn’t been home since.

He has the urge to tear away at the dirt and unearth the coffin, the ground not yet frozen. He wants to hold on to her still, little form, view her precious face and innocent blue eyes that will never open again.

But instead, he works himself up again, and then runs his gloved hand over the dirt. He imagines Rosalie six feet below, her small form dressed in a pale yellow onesie and a little striped hat, swaddled in a gray fleece blanket, the last mental image he has of her before the coffin was shut, and sobs.

“I failed them,” he manages aloud. “Nat, Rosie, I failed them both.”

Combeferre’s hand touches his shoulder from behind him, having accompanied Enjolras, knowing his friend was in no shape to be left alone. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did!” he cries, body shaking. “I told Natalie I’d protect her, I promised Rosalie I’d keep her safe…”

Combeferre kneels down beside him, trying to meet his eyes, but Enjolras’ focus remains on the upturned earth. “I know you did, but what happened isn’t your fault, you know that.”

“I wasn’t there…I…I sh-sh-should have been.”

“I understand how you feel,” Combeferre says, voice gentle. “However, blaming yourself and dwelling on the ‘what-ifs’ are only going to damage you more.”

“My parents are here, Nat’s here, and Rosie…” His eyes glance up, towards the direction of Natalie’s grave, only placed a few weeks prior. “Perhaps I should be here to…”

It’s a line he shouldn’t say, a deeper part of him knows, but the darker shade has consumed him in grief to the point where he wonders if his survival is somehow a mistake. Maybe he should have died in the crash with his parents, or should have somehow passed before Natalie and before Rosalie. Maybe his own tragic end was meant to come, and when it was supposed to strike, he missed it.

“Don’t think like that, please,” Combeferre says, gripping his shoulders. “You know none of them would want that for you.”

Enjolras brings himself to turn his head, meeting the fear in his friend’s eyes. “My family, my entire family is dead.”

The one he was born with was dead. The one he created with another was gone, too.

His statement, in one way, was false. Family is not all about blood and how it’s shared, but of the deep bond shared with those whose bloodlines did not cross, those relationships brought together by commonalities, by friendship.

And all of his friends have stood by him through all of this.

Combeferre hugs him tight, letting the tears fall on his coat. “You’re going to be all right; you won’t suffer alone.”

The two pull apart, Enjolras releasing a shaking breath and then turning his head, staring at the upturned earth and the headstone; the marigold’s petals have started to frost over.

“Come on, it’s getting late; it’ll be dark soon.” Combeferre starts to get to his feet. “Corinne and I have the spare room set up for you, so you don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight.”

Enjolras gives a curt nod, taking his friend’s offered hand to stand up. Neither of them take notice of the two young women standing at a new grave rows over.

Combeferre pulls him into another brief hug. Enjolras returns it. The pair begins to walk to Combeferre’s car, Enjolras taking one last glance at his daughter’s grave and the golden frostbitten petals.

“We can come back tomorrow, alright?” Combeferre says, wrapping his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders.

Enjolras answers with a curt nod, then stares down the snow-covered path ahead.


End file.
